


A Dress of a Different Kind

by Jade_Masquerade



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-13 17:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21497941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade
Summary: Jon isn’t so sure about a gift Sansa receives courtesy of one of their visitors from Qarth until she convinces him otherwise.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 41
Kudos: 230
Collections: JonsaWeek2019





	A Dress of a Different Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I started this for the Jonsa Week Day 2 Prompt: Colors and then sort of just went with it from there ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Jon fiddled with the combs and pins and things laid out on Sansa’s bureau as he waited for her to emerge again from behind her dressing screen. He’d returned to their chambers a few moments before for a brief respite from entertaining their current guests, a contingent visiting from Essos, using the excuse he needed to catch up on correspondences. Truly, though, after an eventful few days, he’d just sought some time alone, or with Sansa if he was lucky to catch her there in between duties of her own. 

“Oh, Jon!” she’d said upon his arrival, spinning away from the mirror in an outfit of emerald green silk fringed with gold he’d quickly learned was called a tokar after some of the Meereenese had chuckled at him for referring to their traditional wear as simply a “dress.” 

Sansa’s cheeks colored at being caught admiring herself, but Jon couldn’t blame her—if he looked like Sansa he imagined he’d be spending plenty of time in front of the looking glass too. “I was just having a bit of a fashion show…” 

She gestured towards the pile of brightly colored garments spread out across their bed. Knowing of the Queen in the North’s eye for fashion and her beauty, their guests brought with them a selection of dresses to gift her in return for Winterfell’s hospitality: silks and samites, lace and fine linen, and more which he could not begin to hazard their names. He’d never seen Winterfell so full of color, between summer emerging in full bloom and the vast array of styles displayed by their visitors. 

“It doesn’t seem like much of a show without an audience,” he said, meaning to sound encouraging, yet his voice coming out rather deeper than he intended. 

Sansa smiled, providing him with another reminder of how beautiful she was and how fortunate he had ended up in this second life of his. “Then you’ve arrived just in time.” 

She’d disappeared then, snatching another outfit off the bed. Jon was glad he hadn’t been gifted a silk skirt himself as many of the Essosi men preferred to wear. The look had a certain striking aesthetic, and he had to admit he could see their merits in that they looked quite comfortable, but he didn’t think he’d have a single notion about how to go about putting the bloody things on, nor did he think he’d get far without tripping over the edges or tearing the flimsy material. He always admired the grace with which Sansa managed to maneuver herself whilst burdened by layers of heavy skirts, but he by no means wished to attempt such a feat himself. She was always lovely, though, his wife—lovely and smart and probably naked behind that dressing screen right there… 

Sansa reappeared before he could rise to find her himself, this time in a dress of a pinkish-purple hue she called mauve, the floaty fabric slit high on her thigh and portions of the material cut out to reveal strategic stretches of the pale skin of her waist and back. It gave the dress a look of being suggestive yet elegant, and he found himself already thinking of what kinds of wanton things they could get up to if she were to wear that to the next feast they hosted, making use of it while she could as they enjoyed the warmth of summer. 

“You look radiant,” he said, offering her a smile in appreciation. It must have been the thousandth time he’d told her so, when she wore everything from furs and flowers in her hair to nothing at all, but she still accepted his words with a grin of her own all the same. 

Sansa vanished again with a swirl of her skirt, and he gratefully eyed the stack she still had left. There were enough there to make for a lengthy absence. While on one hand he had enjoyed the liveliness their visitors injected into Winterfell and found it interesting to hear about the lands from which they hailed, it had been exhausting to have their home once again filled with so many guests. The days of summer stretched long now, meaning often sunrise to sunset and even past dark was filled with a range of activities to make the most of their guests’ time in the North, from riding in the wolfswood to showing off varying kinds of swordsmanship and merry dancing after evening feasts to more serious discussions.

At least there Sansa did most of the talking for him, in her element where he clearly would have been out of his depth, making it clear the North would only engage with those who had naught to do with supporting any sort of servitude or those who sought to restore it in the absence of Daenerys’s control, but that they would generously fill the coffers of those who actively fought against those institutions. Jon had always been in awe of Sansa, admiring the way she managed to speak with a clarity and confidence he could only dream of possessing, but still she impressed him more each day with how she interacted with even the most wayward lords, always remaining firm but kind. 

Their guests had been eager to impress, too. Along with Sansa’s dresses, they’d brought with them an assortment of gifts: gold and silver, saffron as brightly colored as the Myrish oranges that accompanied it and dried cloves roasted a warm bronze, rich wines of deep burgundy and sours of pale green, jewelry inlaid with sparkling emeralds and fire opals and some jade eggs he’d been handed with a wink. All of it produced an effect of dazzling, utter vibrance when set against the backdrop of Winterfell’s stone façade and tables of dark mahogany. 

He was so lost in thought Sansa was nearly halfway across the chambers before he noticed, and he found himself thankful he was already ready with his next compliment, so certain was he she’d look ravishing no matter what she wore whether it be a potato sack or a simple shift, that he almost let them flow forth without a second thought. When he looked, though, truly _looked_, he skipped right over the flowing ice blue fabric that matched Sansa’s eyes and the intricate gold beading and found neither his brain nor his tongue could spit them out. 

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, uncertain why the sight of her single bare breast affected him so when he’d seen her without a stitch of clothing on many an occasion. “Are you certain you’re wearing it correctly?” 

“Absolutely,” she said, giving the same little twirl she had with the last two outfits as though this one was as perfectly normal as all the rest. 

“D—did they forget half of it across the Narrow Sea?” he sputtered. The nipple of her exposed breast hardened in the light summer breeze, and he could see the other covered do the same through the thin fabric. 

“No,” she said calmly, glancing at herself in the looking glass and turning to view what it looked like from behind. 

“Who gave you that?” he demanded next. It was one thing for the foreign lords to comment on Sansa’s beauty, and he understood many of them were used to customs far more liberal than those of Westeros. He thought of how one had brought along an intricate art piece depicting wolves mating to present to the King and Queen in the North, the male made of gleaming white glass and studded with ruby eyes and the female featuring fur streaked reddish-silver and adorned with sapphire eyes. He still didn’t quite know what he was supposed to do with that either, but this was just too much. 

“One of the Thirteen from Qarth,” she said, and then seemed to sense Jon’s concern and recognize his expression. “It’s the style there.” 

Jon supposed he ought to have known; Sansa had been reading books about Essos for weeks now in preparation for hosting, while he’d continually laid aside the ones Sam had encouraged him to look at in favor of other pursuits. “You aren’t planning on wearing that out, are you?” 

Sansa shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to offend our guests. And I want to show our appreciation after they made such a long journey.” 

“It’s… not proper,” he said, rooting around for some logical reason with great difficulty, partially because he knew it was overly presumptuous to pass judgment on the things Sansa wore and because it seemed most of his blood had begun to head south. 

She smirked. “We do many a thing that is not proper.” 

“Yes, well…” he stuttered, thinking of the times she’d ridden him to completion in the bath, sloshing water over the flagstones, when she perched on his desk with the wood creaking, parchment fluttering to the floor and ink perilously perched on edge, how some nights together they would slip unseen into the hot pools of the godswood. “That’s different.”

“Is it so different from when you train shirtless with swords?” she asked innocently, blue eyes wide. _Fuck._ Sometimes she wore that look when she teased him, her mouth around his cock, speaking of one of the many improper things they did. 

“Yes, well… wayward men don’t ogle me then,” he said. 

“Oh no, of course not,” Sansa said, adjusting the strap of her dress, which only seemed to jiggle her freed breast in the process. “Only kitchen maids and serving women, the stable girls and washerwomen, handmaidens and their ladies alike…” 

He caught on now. He may not have been as quick-witted as Sansa, it was true, but he did know some things. “I’ll rip your pretty dress in half if you try to wear it for anyone but me,” he said, his tone sinking to a growl that he knew affected her the same way the flush creeping her half-bare chest did to him now. 

Sansa gasped. “You wouldn’t _dare._” 

She attempted to flit away, but he grabbed hold of the silk before she could get far.

“Would you?” he said, pulling her closer and settling her on his lap. He watched her skin heat, chasing the blush up the length of her neck first with his fingers, and then his tongue. “Would you dare to wear that out and about?”

Sansa shrugged again, attempting nonchalance, but he knew better. He could feel the way her heart beat in anticipation beneath his hand, the way her breath caught when she met his eyes, the way her core pressed hot against his thigh. “I might. What would it matter if I wore it to our council meeting tomorrow? Surely most of the men who will be present are used to such fashions, are they not?” 

Jon couldn’t argue with that, so instead he said, his voice little more than a pathetic whine, “Sansa…” 

“Hm?” She gave the illusion of resettling herself more comfortably on his lap, grinding against his leg as she did and sweeping the longer lengths of her skirts out of the way. 

His tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth now that it was no longer smoothing over her skin. “Would that not defeat the purpose?” 

“Of furthering our discussions, obtaining allies, and establishing trade with these esteemed merchants and politicians? I should think them far more amenable if we show respect to their customs.” 

“I don’t think there will be much discussion to be had,” he said, trying to keep his hands steady as they skimmed over more of Sansa, finally daring to cup her breast in his palm. 

“Oh? What would we do instead? Simply sip tea? Nibble on lemon cakes? Or would you prefer some of the peaches or pomegranates?” Sansa resumed her own wanton writhe atop him. 

He cursed, his breeches tightening beneath her wriggling. “I wouldn’t wish to eat any of that.”

“You’d rather go hungry than indulge in such delicacies?” Her words ended on a breathless gasp as she bumped against his cock. 

“I didn’t say that.” He was certain she saw a particular kind of hunger in his eyes as he tilted his head back to admire her, but in case she had misinterpreted, he leaned forward and sucked her exposed nipple into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. “Would you prefer if I dismissed the men first, or for them to watch?” 

Her eyes widened in shock for a moment before she regained control, and her cheeks tinged pink with coyness even while her smile read sin. “You oppose the sight of my breast for all the world to see, and yet you would permit…?” 

“Aye,” he said. His fingers tightened around her hips. She looked glorious like this, a true queen, her red hair shimmering almost like the gold of a crown in the dazzling afternoon sunlight. “I have no qualms about showing them you are mine.” 

“And what about me?” she said, arranging her hair over one shoulder so it covered her breast, and then seeming to think better of it and brushing it back over the other. His cock twitched impatiently in his breeches. “Perhaps you should remind me.” 

He tugged her towards him, tired of teasing, and groaned when Sansa’s lips crashed against his. He always marveled at the way Sansa felt against him, beneath him, and he reminded himself of how they fit so perfectly together now, each of his hands spanning the width of her waist, her tongue moving in time along with his, her long legs bracketing him on either side as she sat astride him, carefully keeping her balance by tightening around him every time she rose up to meet his kisses. 

Sansa worked the laces of his tunic free, spreading the fabric apart until his chest was equally as bare as hers, and then he set to work on her dress, bunching the fabric in his hands, worrying momentarily about ruining the thin silk, and then thinking better of it. 

_Oh well,_ he thought wickedly. All the better if those wrinkles never came out, if this dress was only hers, only for them, the Queen in the North never deigning to wear anything less than perfect. 

His hands skimmed up her thighs, hoping she wasn’t wearing some kind of complicated underthings to go along with this style of dress, only to find that she wore none at all. 

This time Sansa moaned as he stroked over her clit first and then lower, his fingers easily sliding through the wetness there. She was even softer and silkier here than the fabric that flowed around her, and suddenly he cursed this dress for daring to exist as a barrier between them, primitively wanting to feel all of Sansa against him. 

With his free hand he pushed aside the strap and cloth that covered the other half of her chest until it bunched between her breasts, and now he lavished attention on the other, licking and sucking until it pebbled beneath his tongue. 

He found the sight of Sansa atop him so beautiful he had half a mind to bring her off just like this, but then she whispered, “More,” and he couldn’t deny her nor his own desires anymore. He slipped his hand free, and Sansa twisted in his lap, tugging his breeches and smallclothes down to his knees. It was a small discomfort quite worth the sheer heaven that was her cunt sheathing him a moment later. 

Sansa gasped against his mouth as he slowly filled her, and he swallowed her next moan with a kiss. She could have been wearing the finest silk in all the world or a beaded bodice of solid gold and he didn’t think he would have noticed right then when they came together like this; he saw only her, felt only her as she pushed up on her knees and sank down on him again and again, her fingers twining through his hair. 

The chair scraped against the stone floor as he began to move, meeting each of her downward slides with a thrust of his own. Normally Sansa would have scolded him for risking damage to those surfaces, her concern evident with an adorably furrowed brow, but he knew Winterfell had survived much more than this and his blood heated at the thought of leaving behind evidence of their lovemaking, so he pushed back, harder, faster. He panted against her chest with the effort, his breath and the scrub of his beard coloring her skin a delicious shade of rosy pink. 

Sansa arched her back, leaning until she found the angle just right, and he moved his hands to anchor her hips. Jon already knew whatever the rest of his afternoon held—a feast of exotic delicacies, a show of swords, a parade of elephants—it would be utterly disappointing compared to the view he beheld at that moment and the feeling of Sansa peaking around him, her cunt tightening along his length, the way she bit her lip to stifle a cry, how after all that she shyly looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes as she rode out the rest of it. 

Sansa sagged against him, boneless, fluttering back to earth like her skirt to the floor as he cast free the hem of it that had somehow bunched up between his fingers. He filled his hands with Sansa again instead and needed little more than that to find his own release, pushing up into her a final time and spilling.

“So you don’t like it?” She sat up with a dignity he couldn’t muster at the moment and gave a little pout. 

He did manage a bit of a grin, though. “I can’t think of anything more preferable than this.” 

“No, I mean the _dress,_” she clarified with a raised eyebrow. 

He glanced down to where it laid crumpled between them. He hoped those wrinkles could be eliminated with a washing, or at least he hoped Sansa would forgive him if they couldn’t. He drew his gaze up the rest of her body until it snagged on her breasts, Sansa’s skin paling and turning to ivory once more while he felt his own cheeks redden.

“I… can see its merits,” he admitted, his body beginning to betray him again already, never satiated when it came to Sansa. 

She sighed. “I think I’ll still prefer my Stark cloak and northern dresses for feasts, council meetings, and such.”

He almost felt a bit disappointed by that, until Sansa grinned and continued, “But I can think of a few other uses for this: a famous courtesan, a merchant maid, a pirate princess…”

As he met her sparkling blue eyes, he imagined he would be indisposed for many more afternoons to come.


End file.
